


300 Days

by misslucyjane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale/Kate Argent (past) - Freeform, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyjane/pseuds/misslucyjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is seventeen for another three hundred days. Derek is in for a long wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Countdown Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. It's been stalled for a long time, in fact, so I'm crossing my fingers that making what I have so far public will give me the impetus to finish it. 
> 
> The tags will be edited to reflect upcoming chapters. (Other bits may change as well.)

The third or fourth time Stiles reaches for the fly on Derek's pants, Derek pushes him away with more force than usual and Stiles sits up, mouth mulish and sulky. "Okay, what?" he says, all sarcasm and high-strung nerves, and Derek doesn't feel too calm himself at the moment but still manages to take a deep breath and not yank him back to finish what they started. "I know you don't find me repulsive because you keep coming back for more, so how come you keep stopping me? I know you want me, Derek, I mean --" His eyes flick down to Derek's fly again, which, yeah. "Fuck."

Derek counts ten, silently, while Stiles's fingers twitch and his face gets redder, and finally Derek says, "Your dad is the sheriff."

"Yeah, so?"

"Yeah, so, he's made it pretty clear that if there's ever a hint of me doing something inappropriate with you he will not hesitate to toss my ass into jail, so we're not doing anything more than make out until you're eighteen."

Stiles groans like he's cut off a toe and rolls off the bed. Derek lies there while Stiles paces around the room -- more like a caged wolf than most wolves Derek knows -- and bites savagely at, what is that, gym shorts? His lacrosse shirt?

Derek asks himself again why he'd risk so much for this weird Stilinski kid, but the answer isn't one you can give in words. More like in scents and actions and looks -- the kind of look that passes between two people when they both realize they're mutually caught and are not trying to escape.

Stiles climbs back into the bed abruptly and waves a calendar in Derek's face. "My eighteenth birthday is in three hundred and twelve days."

"I know," Derek says. "Believe me, I know."

"Do you really think either of us are going to last that long?"

"We're gonna have to. And yeah, I know, I'm the one who keeps coming back for more."

"If you didn't live in a burned-out death trap, I might drop in more often."

Derek puts his hands on Stiles's thighs. They're firm -- and like not thinking about a blue elephant, he's immediately imagining how they'll feel clasped around his hips. He closes his eyes and counts to ten again. "I'll break out the guest doilies," he rasps finally and pushes Stiles off him. "Gotta go."

Stiles waits until he's almost out the window to call back, "Hey, asshole."

Derek sticks his head back in. "What?"

"Three hundred and eleven days." His eyes flick to the clock, where it's now 12:01. He grins.

"Good night, Stiles," says Derek with a sigh, and floors it all the way home.

***

People assume Derek has had a lot of sex. Stiles assumes Derek has had a lot of sex, and Derek has never found a way to say No, not really, because the first one person he slept with ended up killing his family and after something like that happens you don't exactly rush to give someone else a chance to turn you inside out.

Hell, he didn't want it to be that Stilinski kid. He didn't seek him out or plan this. It was just there, and didn't go away even when Derek was rude and pushy and (yeah, he was ashamed of it now) violent, and he found himself thinking about Stiles's surprisingly strong arms and his nervous tics and the way he made it easier to breathe just by being around. Derek was sunk before he realized the boat was taking on water.

Derek thinks it might be some sort of comrades-in-arms kind of thing, but if that were all, there are half a dozen other people who would make more sense. No, it's more than that. Stiles may be completely human but he's got a strength alphas envy, some inner core of steel and fire that most people never see. Scott, Derek suspects, has known about Stiles since the first day they met, and probably knows how lucky he is to have Stiles as a friend. 

But back to the issue at hand: the three hundred and some-odd days to get through before they embark on what Derek sincerely and fervently hopes will be worth waiting for. Stiles expected sex the first time Derek kissed him -- it had been there in his hands and in his mouth, an eagerness that left Derek's head spinning. Slow down, he said, plenty of time, he said, and after they'd made out until their mouths were sore he fell asleep in Stiles's bed, the kid's head on his chest, and damn if that didn't feel better than a night fucking Kate ever had.

(There was a non-cynical part of him that said this is what love feels like, and he told that part to go back to sleep and keep its opinions to itself.)


	2. In Which Wolves Mate for Life

"Is it true?" Stiles chins himself on the bookcase shelf. They're in the folklore section of the Beacon Hills public library, trying to figure out the latest local weirdie, and Stiles has already blown through half a dozen books while Derek is still checking indexes.

"Is what true?" he says with a sigh and hopes the librarian is too busy to overhear their conversation. Stiles is bad at remembering his inside voice.

"That wolves mate for life."

"You'd have to ask a wolf." He puts the book back, selects another.

Stiles grins. Manically. "I am."

Derek rolls his eyes. "I guess. Yeah." All his clan had, if he remembers right. Sometimes the details are alarmingly fuzzy, and he hates that -- like time is trying to blur the pain instead of letting him keep it sharp.

Stile's grin grows even more worrisome. "Is that why you're so willing to wait?" he says, delighted. "You know I'm it for you anyway?"

"Shut up," Derek says and gives him half a shelf of books. "Go check these out." Few, if any, of them are going to be of any help but Derek doesn't care. Anything to keep from thinking things he doesn't want to think about. He doesn't watch Stiles prance down the aisle on the other side of the shelf, chortling to himself.

... except he does watch, out of the corner of his eye, watches Stiles's sure feet and long legs and he thinks, You're it for me, and it doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt to think that at all.

***

They're in Stiles's Jeep, and Stiles is wrapping gauze around Derek's arm and his mouth has that dangerous look it gets when he's mad and won't say anything about it because he's too mad, and Derek's head hurts and he lost a lot of blood but the healing has already set in, oh yay, and he sighs, "Just say it."

"Fucking idiot."

"Mm," says Derek.

"Charging in there by yourself. Christ on a pogo stick."

"Mm."

"Could have gotten yourself killed like the big lump of stupid you are."

"Mm."

Stiles thwacks him on the head and Derek glares at him. "I'm scolding you! Pay attention!"

"I'm listening. I'm not arguing with you. It was stupid. I should have waited for the others. Thanks for bringing them." He closes his eyes and smiles a little to himself as Stiles sputters, speechless.

"Idiot," Stiles says again and buries himself in Derek's arms. "What would I do if you died? You're it for me, too, you know."

He's tired and he hurts and he wants to go (to Stiles's place, fall asleep in his bed, wake up in his bed, wrath of the sheriff be damned) home, but he lies there in the passenger seat with Stiles shaking against his chest, strokes his hair and says, "Hey, sh, hey. It's okay now."

He has no idea of he's going it right, this boyfriend thing, but sometimes he figures winging it isn't so bad.


	3. In Which There is Pie. Lots Of Pie.

His phone rings, Stiles's number, and Derek is smiling as he says, "Hey, Stiles."

"Mr. Hale," says someone who isn't Stiles, and the smile fades as Derek cusses under his breath. "It's Sheriff Stilinski."

"Is Stiles okay?"

There's a slight pause, and the sheriff says in a surprised tone, "Yeah, he's fine. I, uh, borrowed his phone to ask you a question."

"All right." Derek braces himself, though he knows if Sheriff Stilinski were going to haul him in now he'd do it in person rather than over the phone.

"Stiles wants me to ask you to Thanksgiving dinner. He doesn't think you have other plans."

Dereke murmurs, "He's right. I don't," past the lump in his throat, because while he has a pack they aren't exactly warm and fuzzy. He hasn't eaten Thanksgiving dinner for years.

"All right," says Sheriff Stilinski, and while his tone isn't exactly warm and fuzzy either there's less hostility in it than most of their previous conversations. "We eat at four, after the game. If you want to bring a pie, go ahead. We can never have too much pie."

"Will do. Thank you," says Derek, and after he hangs up he is caught between laughing and getting that lump out of his throat.

***

Stiles's face lights up when he opens the door, and he cries, "You brought pie!" as he throws his arms around Derek.

"It's from a bakery," Derek says, holding it out of the way so it doesn't get crushed, and sneaks a kiss before Sheriff Stilinski looms in the foyer. "Uh, it's cherry," Derek adds and suddenly realizes that it sounds like a terrible joke, and Sheriff Stilinski's expression doesn't change as he takes the pie and jerks his head to the living room.

"Game's nearly over," he says and goes to the kitchen. Stiles grins at Derek and tugs him to the living room, and they have two heady, delirious minutes on the couch before the Sheriff returns and they watch the last quarter of the game without touching.

Dinner is awkward, but tolerable. The turkey is dry, but there's plenty of gravy and mashed potatoes, and there are five pies to choose from (which they end up eating most of, the rest saved for breakfast because pie for breakfast on the day after Thanksgiving is a Stilinski tradition) and by the time they're eating pie they've all relaxed enough to enjoy it. When the dishes are washed and the leftovers fit like a game of Tetris in the fridge (and they've all had one more slice of pie), it's begun to rain. Hard.

"I don't want you driving in this," says Stiles, his face utterly innocent, and the sheriff clears his throat. "Dad, you know the statistics of nighttime driving in wet weather!"

"Yes, Stiles," his dad says with a sigh, and then points to Derek. "You are sleeping on the sofa."

"Yes, sir," Derek says and manages not to react when Stiles kicks him under the table.

Being exiled to the couch doesn't mean Stiles will stay away, of course. When the house is quiet and the sheriff has said, "Good night, Stiles," in the most pointed way possible, Derek lies awake with his arm behind his head, listening to the rain, and doesn't jump one bit when Stiles joins him and pulls another blanket over the both of them.

"When your dad told me to sleep here," Derek says after they've kissed for a while, "it was to prevent this very thing from happening."

"It was to prevent you from getting my cherry," Steve replies with a chortle, and then they kiss for a while longer. "But no sex is going to happen on this couch. Just mackin'."

"Be glad I like you," Derek sighs, and they kiss for a while more.

Stiles falls asleep on top of him. Derek lies awake, too hot from Stiles's weight and the blankets, but so peaceful it doesn't matter. 

In the morning Stiles wakes abruptly, gives Derek a swift kiss, and then scurries back to his room mere seconds before the sheriff knocks on the door and pushes it open without waiting for an answer. Derek hears Stiles's, "Mornin', Dad!" from down the hall, and the sheriff's surprised, "Mornin', Stiles," as if he expected to find Derek curled on the bed, too.

For breakfast, there's coffee and leftover pie, and Stiles says, "You can hang out if you want, Derek," and Derek says he'd love to, and the sheriff sighs but doesn't object.


End file.
